


Meltdown

by Flubberwurm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Asperger Syndrome, Asperger's Sherlock, Autism, Autistic Sherlock, Character Study, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:46:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flubberwurm/pseuds/Flubberwurm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn’t had a loss of control like this in many years. Until now he had always succeeded in maintaining his cold façade in front of others. He was Sherlock Holmes after all. He was a man of cold reasoning, of rationality, of facts. He could not afford to be emotional – and certainly not this over-emotional. His emotions occasionally getting the better of him in private was bad enough; but that it had now happened in front of a witness was intolerable to him. Especially since said witness was the one man who meant more to Sherlock than any other human being in the world. John Watson, whom he wanted to keep in his life more than anyone else ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meltdown

“Are you alright, Sherlock?”  John asked, eyeing his friend worriedly.

The lank detective sat next to him on the back seat of the cab that was taking them home, and appeared to be inches away from a nervous breakdown of sorts. Just keeping his breath under control seemed to cause him trouble, his fingers drummed nervously on the leathern cushioning of his seat, and it even looked as though he was slightly rocking back and forth trying to calm himself.

He had become more and more taciturn over the whole day, and now he had not spoken a single word during the cab drive. That in itself was nothing unusual; John had often found him in similar spirits after a particularly exhausting day. And this day had, by God, been exhausting. They had been consulted by Scotland Yard to help the investigation of an especially puzzling case of murder. In the morning they had examined the crime scene together with Lestrade’s team, where, despite many attempts at conciliation on the parts of both John and Lestrade, there had been several fights between Sherlock and the ‘professionals’. In an accordingly very short time everyone’s nerves had been horribly raw. The following interrogations of friends and family of the victim had turned into downright catastrophe. Sherlock had become increasingly irritable – and irritating. He had thrown about multitudes of insults and callousness, and in addition had refused to communicate with any of his colleagues more than what was absolutely essential. So John had spent all day running after Sherlock, not having the slightest clue where they were going or why, trying to compensate for the latter’s crass blunders, and in return was insulted by him in regular intervals. By late afternoon, when they were on their way back to 221B Baker Street, he was thoroughly sick and tired of him; and usually he would have let him feel that quite clearly, too. But this time he could not help but feel anxious about him; the detective had become noticeably short of breath, appeared extremely tense, and only with difficulty managed to maintain his composure. He obviously stood under enormous stress, and the fact that it was this visible worried John. Because he knew Sherlock Holmes would have to feel downright awful, to let on _anything_ at all.

“Sherlock. Are you alright?”

Sherlock only harrumphed in reply, and after a moment of hesitation John decided to leave him alone for the time being. In situations such as this one, that always seemed the best strategy. Sometimes it could well happen that Sherlock would not speak to him for hours, sometimes for whole days. But to try and force him to talk had never been helpful. He would surely calm down again.

His hands resting on his thighs, John looked outside the window instead. Watching London pass him by, he tried his hardest to ignore Sherlock, who occasionally shot angry glances at him (or rather: his crotch, which John found rather irritating indeed).

Upon arrival at Baker Street, John paid the driver and a couple of minutes later they wordlessly entered their mutual flat.

John was about to let himself fall into his chair in exhaustion, when Sherlock, still standing in the doorway, suddenly burst out in a mighty roar.

_____

“MRS. HUDSOOOOON!!!”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!!” John startled and stared at him in disbelief. “What the …?”

“Someone’s been here. In the flat. Someone’s touched my things.”

“Yes, that would have been Mrs. Hudson, she’s been cleaning!”

“MRS. HUDSOOON!!!” He roared again.

“She’s not at home right now, but having tea at a friend’s place, as she only just told us this very morning. You know if you would just occasionally listen to us …”

“Why has she been cleaning here?” Sherlock asked appalled, “Why?”

“Because you never do it, and I’m usually busy letting myself be dragged off to some adventure by you, or earning our living. Sherlock, have you taken a look around here recently? We would have perished in this dirty mess, were it not for …”

He doubtingly watched as Sherlock’s glance, trying to take in the whole extent of the catastrophe, shot frantically through the room.

“Sherlock?”

“I didn’t agree to this. This is my flat.”

John sighed. “No, it’s not, Sherlock. It’s _our_ flat.” he explained, “Actually it isn’t even that. Technically speaking those rooms are still Mrs. Hudson’s, who allows us a ridiculously low rent and helps us manage the housekeeping. She wouldn’t have to do any of this; I think you should really be a bit more thankful.”

“Thankful?” His voice cracked worryingly. “She touched my things!”

 “What’s so horrible about that?”

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

Sherlock’s head was spinning. ‘What’s so horrible about that?’ He didn’t even know how to respond to that. There was nothing, not a single thing, _not_ horrible about that. There were no words to express the enormity of this betrayal, and the _wrongness_ , the unbearable _wrongness_ of it all. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t just _cleaned_ the flat, she had _tidied_ it. Everything looked different. His eyes darted panicky through all the room, desperately trying to find a familiar sight to take refuge in. But everything was wrong, so wrong, so horribly wrong. The chairs stood in a painful angle to one another, the cushions on top, orderly beyond endurance – those chairs, the very embodiment of cosiness and familiarity, had been turned into something cold and strange. The thick layers of dust that had only a few hours ago covered all surfaces and on which the familiar lines of habitual movements had been legible, were gone. Everything was sterile and lifeless. Even his documents had been moved. Sherlock couldn’t even bear to look at the two neat stacks of paper on his desk. Everything was wrong, perverted. His skull Billy had been moved, the carpet was askew, his chemicals in the kitchen neatly lined up on the counter, the bin emptied. The absence of the usual clothes scattered all over the place made the flat appear strangely bald and naked.

This flat had nothing in common with the one he had left in the morning. This flat, his harbor, his refuge, this place of calming familiarity, had been desecrated, had been raped. Wherever he turned his eyes there was a new shock waiting for him, a new punch to the gut. He felt slightly dizzy and a wild despair began to rummage in his chest. It was all wrong, so wrong, so very wrong …

Helplessly he spun round and round again, trying to take in all these new impressions, to get this changed world to make sense again …

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

No. No. No, no, no, no, no.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

If only this damned ticking noise, that had been following him around all day long, would finally stop. This ticking noise that was tormenting him, was taunting him-

He suddenly became uncomfortably aware of John’s presence in the room. He could not afford this kind of behavior, not in front of John. Not in front of anyone, but especially not in front of John. John, whom he wanted to keep in his life more than anyone else. John, who had admired him. John …

With some effort Sherlock forced himself to stand still and put his hands on his temples, trying to block out as much of the dreadful sight as possible; to get his breathing under control; to stand upright.

“Sherlock, what …?” John stared at him in bewilderment.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He could not bear this kind of look. It was a questioning look, almost a little amused, but mostly worried. In this look there was confusion to be read, as well as, abhorrent as it was to Sherlock, a trace of sympathy. But there was more. There was repulsion.

His behavior was repulsive to John Watson. His behavior was repulsive to himself, too.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

Now that his eyes were closed he felt as if somebody had turned up the volume.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

Sherlock gave a cry of frustration and turned away. But it was no use. He heard the creaking of the floorboards as John uncomfortably shifted his weight from one leg onto the other, heard the scrunching of his leather shoes. The fridge was buzzing in the kitchen, his own heartbeat and his increasingly fast-paced breath boomed in his ears.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

And still the ticking noise, still, again and again, the ticking noise … It stung in his ears, echoed inside his skull; it tormented and humiliated him with cruel, exactly predictable orderliness; made it impossible to think straight.

“ARGH!” Sherlock convulsively covered his ears with his hands, but even over the muffled static sound that filled them now, the ticking noise still clawed its way into his consciousness.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

“Okay, Sherlock.” John’s voice, as if coming from somewhere far, far away, sounded very clearly like a medical professional’s. “Calm down. “ He made a few steps towards Sherlock. “I-“

“FOR GOD’S SAKE, John, would you finally take off that _thing_?!!!” Sherlock whirled around, gesturing wildly, his face contorted with despair and helpless anger.

“That thing??? What thing??” John, obviously hit unexpectedly by this fierce outburst, threw his hands up in frustration.

Sherlock’s ears hurt; and still the ticking noise, still this ticking noise in his ears, in his brain, ceaseless, again and again.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

“The …” He couldn’t look at John. He couldn’t find the words, couldn’t explain. Inside his head everything was whirling around. Like a storm over the ocean, shattering every clear thought on terrifying cliffs. Cliffs of despair. Words, carried out to the black, wild sea; and sucked into a whirlpool, sucked deep, deep down …

Sherlock felt as if he was drowning. The walls seemed to be closing in on him, the very air trying to suffocate him. His last dam had given way and the flood could not be stopped anymore.

In violent despair and unable to explain himself to John in any way, he launched himself onto the doctor, who was utterly unprepared for that, and snatched his wrist.

“What the HELL are you doing?!” John shouted and tried to struggle free from Sherlock’s grasp, but Sherlock was strong, much stronger than one would have presumed from his slender stature.

After some wrangling and under John’s most vocal remonstration, Sherlock finally tore the watch John had only just bought a couple of days ago from his wrist. He threw the odious object onto the ground and stomped on it. Once. Again. And again. Again and again; seized by an inexorable, untamable anger; an expression of pure madness on his face.

In this moment, there was no self-control for him, no dignity, no rational thought. There was no reason, no intellect. There was anger. There was despair. And there was the watch, this hateful, maliciously glistening thing, still ticking as if in mockery. This was the object of his anger and the cause of his despair, it was deserving of punishment, it needed to be destroyed. To be destroyed, destroyed, destroyed, destroyed, destroyed …

John stood speechlessly and watched as Sherlock trampled onto it again and again, uttering inarticulate curses; watched as glass splintered and metal burst.

Eventually Sherlock stopped, panting, and examined the result of his efforts. The watch had been shattered into a mess of tiny splinters of glass and metal.

And it was quiet.

Quiet.

For a short moment Sherlock simply stood there and savoured his victory. The storm inside of him abated.

But now a much worse feeling began to spread in its stead: shame, bottomless shame. He was well aware of the disturbed look resting upon him. He heard John’s heavy breath. He saw him standing there from the corner of his eye and did not dare to look closer. He was scared of what he would have to read in his face.

He felt as if there was a glaring spotlight directed at him.

He felt just like back then. Back then in school when after one of his fits all the other kids had stood around him. The way they had stared, whispered, some scared, some amused. Countless eyes on him, mocking shouts, hands trying to touch him, hands, hands everywhere, everywhere eyes and voices, hands, their abhorrent, sickening touch on his skin. The ridicule that had followed him for days, for weeks, in fact for all his school years.

The humiliation, the shame. The sign of the pariah.

John’s look resting upon him, burning deep into him. He had to escape it, he could not bear it, he had to-

He could not bring himself to say anything. He could not bring himself to even look at John. With a few, quick strides he crossed the room, took flight into his bedroom and shut the door behind him in panic.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and shook out his trembling fingers.

After some time he felt prepared to open his eyes again and let them wander around his room. Here at least Mrs. Hudson seemed to have been more careful in her cleaning-up action. His bed had been made and his clothes folded, but otherwise his privacy had apparently been respected. That made it slightly easier for him to breathe.

Hesitantly he took a few more steps into his room and touched the soothingly familiar textures of the tapestry, of his blanket, feeling the cold, smooth wood of the commode. But soon he began to pace the room restlessly. He could not hold still, he had to keep moving or his equally restless thoughts would get the better of him. He frantically tried to direct them at something, _anything_ , else.

_I have made a complete fool of myself._

No.

He thought of the 243 types of tobacco ash he had catalogued to date and of the essay he had written on the topic and published on his blog. The reaction of the public – bewildered disinterest – had been thoroughly disappointing, but Mycroft had put him in contact with the editor of a French specialist journal; that was good, he-

_I have hurt John._

No, no, no.

Bees. He had always wanted to keep bees. Not because of the honey, he had little time for sweets – he ate solely for purpose, for survival, not for taste. But ever since early childhood he had found their monotonous humming to be incredibly calming. One day he would retire to a little cottage, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, just him and his bees, their humming, he would enjoy the calm, he would-

_I am a freak. They are right, they were always right._

With increasing panic Sherlock scanned the room with his eyes, searching for anything to calm himself with. His eyes fell upon the periodic table on the wall. He liked it, it was organized, it made sense. This was what he had always loved about chemistry; it helped him to make sense of the world around him, to identify some sort of pattern. With its help he could penetrate the surface of all things, he could dissect them into their tiniest parts, understand the underlying processes. He could lose himself in chemical experiments and for a few precious hours forget the chaotic world around him. He would have loved to go to his equipment in the kitchen right now, but for that he would have to leave his room and-

_You will never be able to face him again._

He gave up. Overwhelmed by shame he sunk upon his bed and buried his face in his hands.

 

He hadn’t had a loss of control like this in many years. Until now he had always succeeded in maintaining his cold façade in front of others. He was Sherlock Holmes after all. He was a man of cold reasoning, of rationality, of facts. He could not afford to be emotional – and certainly not _this_ over-emotional. His emotions occasionally getting the better of him in private was bad enough; but that it had now happened in front of a witness was intolerable to him. Especially since said witness was the one man who meant more to Sherlock than any other human being in the world. John. What would John think of him now? He would probably want to move out, break off all contact with him, and Sherlock couldn’t even blame him. Indeed it was a miracle that he had endured him for so long already. A miracle that there had not been such an outburst much earlier. Sherlock scolded himself internally: he had allowed John to get too close. He had become much too accustomed to him, had let his guard down, had let himself go. That had been unwise. Normally he had made it a principle to keep people at a safe distance – that was best for everyone involved. He shouldn’t have made an exception for John. It had been a mistake, and now they were both paying the cost. He should have known better, after all these years …

The sound of footsteps interrupted his swirling thoughts and put him in state of alarm.

_Please don’t._

John was approaching the door, then stopped right in front of it.

A moment of hesitation.

_Don’t._

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

Sherlock gave a loud grunt in reply. He wanted John to leave; he could not bear having him this close. Every thought of John hurt. Did the idiot really have to worry about him on top of it all?

“Alright. Um …” Sherlock could hear John’s feet shuffle on the floor and hoped he would leave soon. He did not want to talk, not about that. He couldn’t. He felt naked, exposed; it was a terrible, frightening feeling and it increased with every second of John’s presence.

John cleared his throat. At least he didn’t seem to have any intention to open the door.

“… So, anytime you feel like explaining to me what’s just happened there – “

_There is nothing to explain. Go away._

“- and I’d really very much like to hear that-“

_Please, leave me alone._

The feeling of despair threatened to drown him again. He held his head with his hands.

“- I’ll be in the sitting room.”  And with that John finally turned around to leave.

Sherlock quickly leaped towards the door and turned the key in the lock, just in case.

“Oh, brilliant.” The voice sounded muffled from the other side of the door, but the steps moved away.

_Alone again. Safe. For now._

A clock’s ticking noise. A simple clock’s ticking noise was what had gotten him into all this trouble. No, that wasn’t quite right. There had been all the other noise of this day, of this horrible, exhausting day: the argument in Scotland Yard with all these loud, tangled voices; the cab drives, the interviews with the witnesses, the changing surroundings, the colours, the smells; all these countless sensations that had pushed themselves into his consciousness and had worn him out. The wristwatch had simply been the last few notes of a crescendo that had been swelling all day.

Sherlock curled up into a ball on the cold floor, pressed his legs tightly, very tightly, against his chest and damned his overactive senses. Damned them as he had damned them many times in the past. They had always been his most useful tool, his sharpest weapon; and yet had always been his life-long tormentors. In a world that flooded him with the most intense sensations, with all those little bits and pieces of information that demanded to be taken in, to be consciously perceived, to be analysed and processed properly, his senses were his worst enemies. Enemies he had, only a couple of month ago, tried to keep at bay with the aid of drugs.

Oh, how he longed for it, for that comfortable numbness of his senses, of his racing mind, which had finally, for a short time, been calm … How he longed for those inestimably valuable moments of silence, of calmness … Never in his life had he felt such calmness …

His eyes involuntarily wandered towards the injection needle he still hadn’t disposed of, even though he had not used it in what felt like ages. A few moments of rest, of calm, just a few …

_No._

He had sworn this off. He didn’t want to return to the state he had been in in those times. He didn’t want to disappoint Mycroft, didn’t want to disappoint Lestrade, not after all they had done for him. They had sent all these cases his way, all these little puzzle games, with which he had been able to occupy himself, to employ his senses in a productive way, to give purpose and direction to his endlessly circling thoughts. Which had kept him clean. Through the profession of the ‘Consulting Detective’, newly created just for him, he had found a way to turn his greatest weakness into his greatest strength. His senses were the burden he had to bear, but they allowed him to notice details that passed by almost everyone else; details, which often proved to be most crucial. The constant flood of information was his curse, but it was his blessing just as well. The more his blessing the more he put his emotions aside and focused entirely on the work. And that was what he had done, and that was what he had almost perfected.

He would not give up all of that in one single moment of weakness.

He was Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, a man of cold reasoning and rationality.

-

His suit suddenly began to feel unpleasantly tight on his skin. He staggered onto his feet to change clothes. Then, comfortably draped in his pyjama and dressing gown, he sat down in front of the window to smoke. To think.

He did not leave the room for many hours.

__

 

After John had cleaned up the battle field Sherlock had left behind, he too had tried his best to distract himself for the time being; until he could mend matters with Sherlock. Sherlock had a disposition to impulsive, inexplicable behaviour, as well as to locking himself into his room for indefinite periods of time. That was nothing new to John, and yet this unusually violent outburst had surprised and alarmed him. But until Sherlock himself was ready to talk to him, there was nothing he could do. He spent the next couple of hours browsing in front of his laptop, skipping from article to article and through multiple discussion boards.

He was just moderately interestedly skimming a stressed-out mother’s post about her child vehemently refusing to go to kindergarten (heaven knows how he even got onto _that_ website), when suddenly Sherlock’s bedroom door flung open and the man himself whirled into the kitchen with springy steps.

“Tea, John?” he asked cheerily, his dressing gown flowing wildly behind him, presenting his very biggest smile. As John only stared at him uncomprehendingly, he held up two cups and shook them slightly to clarify the message. “Tea. Would you like some tea? Black tea, green tea, herbal tea …”

“Um, no, Sherlock.” John put his laptop aside. “Actually …”

“Very well.” The smile disappeared from his face in an instant. He put the cups back down between the chemicals on the kitchen table and crossed the sitting room with a few, long strides. With cat-like movements he perched himself on the chair opposite John, who was trying to mentally prepare himself for whatever might happen next.

“The Campbell case. You remember the interview with Agatha Preston? She claims to have been at a party at the time of the crime and to have not arrived home until three in the morning. But the carpet in her corridor tells a whole different story. If-“

“Are we not going to talk about it?”

Sherlock was visibly irritated by this inapposite interruption. “I’m trying to. So, if you-“

“No, I’m not talking about Preston’s carpet. I’m talking about earlier. Sherlock, what happened there?”

Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh, but he accepted the change of topic. “John, listen, that watch had hindered my work and it needed to go. I’m sorry it couldn’t find a more worthy end, but-“

“No.” John disrupted persistently, “I am not talking about my watch either. I am talking about you.”

___

His eyes pierced most uncomfortably into Sherlock’s own, who stiffened involuntarily.

“About me, what about me?” The words stumbled out of Sherlock’s mouth a little too quickly. “You know me John, I can be a little impatient at times. But taking into consideration the considerable interference-“

“My watch was ticking. Why did that upset you so badly?”

With a longing gaze towards his bedroom door Sherlock leaned back into his chair. Leaving his room had obviously been a mistake.

“Is it because of … your … Sherlock, have you … have you ever been … uhm …”

 _Oh for God’s sake._ He could well imagine what John was trying to amount to with his stammering, and he did not like it one bit. He wrapped his dressing gown closer around his body and braced himself.

“Have you ever heard of-“

“Do you really have to say it out loud?”

“-Asperger’s Syndrome?” John finished his sentence unwaveringly.

_Asperger’s Syndrome._

There they were, those two words.

\---

It had been Mycroft. Back then, Sherlock had only been living independently in his own flat for a couple of weeks, Mycroft had sent him an email containing exactly those two words. Nothing else. Sherlock had done some research on his own, had read different articles and experience reports, had felt the ground shake beneath his feet, had seen his self-image shatter before his very eyes like a mirror’s glass. With much effort he had had to pick up all the shards again, to assemble them back together into a completely new and yet desperately familiar picture. It had been a revelation.

_There is a name for it. There is a name for the way I am._

Of course he had always known that he was _different._ He had always felt a sort of barrier between himself and the people around him. Like a pane of glass through which he could see, observe, but which he could never penetrate. His peers had always seemed like strange creatures to him, enigmatic and inexplicable and distant, incredibly distant. He had never been able to successfully bond with them. Again and again he had had to recognise that he had accidently offended or alienated them, that he bored them, annoyed them or repelled them. That with every attempt at socialising he infringed a multitude of rules that no one ever articulated and therefore remained a mystery to him. No matter how hard he tried, he could not find a common ground with them; he seemed to communicate on a whole different level and in a whole different way. Constantly there were these horrible misunderstandings. The chasm seemed only to deepen with every failed attempt at bridging it. And within him, as within those around him, the conviction grew that there was just something not quite right with him. For this ‘something’ his surroundings had found different names over time.

‘Show-off’ and ‘Know-it-all’ had been favoured nicknames at first, ‘Weirdo, ‘Nerd’ and ‘Freak’ had enjoyed great popularity later, as well as the always present ‘asshole’. But one of these names had imprinted itself upon him especially; after all it had come from an official side: ‘Sociopath’. That had been the assessment of the psychologist his worried parents had consulted over him. The psychologist herself had proven to have been entirely useless, but this one word would gain enormous significance to Sherlock. Over the years it had become his armour. It was one thing to be a friendless failure, whose every attempt at socialising backfired. Being a sociopath, however, was a whole different thing. What did he have to care about anyone’s thoughts and feelings? Mycroft had always held the firm conviction that Sherlock should rather train his intellect than waste his time trying to please other people; a strategy that he himself seemed to have acted on ever since the day of his birth. Mycroft had encouraged him in adopting the role of the sociopath as his own, and Sherlock had learned to play it convincingly. It gave him security, freed him of every responsibility and every fear of failure. ‘Sociopath’ had a dangerous ring to it, it gained him respect. Sherlock the ‘freak’ had been weak; he had let himself be pushed around, bent over backwards trying to please anyone, and got hurt over and over again. Sherlock the ‘sociopath’ had left this weakness behind, he bent over backwards for no one, he had better things to do than try and make ‘friends’, he had become hardened and cold and aloof. He was ironclad. No one could hurt him anymore. No one would dare try, because this Sherlock fought back, without remorse and with ice-cold calculation. The subtleties of interpersonal communication remained as alien to him as ever, but that didn’t matter any longer. Because he had learned to read people in his own fashion. From tiniest details, the folds in people’s clothes, the food residues in their beards or the smell of their toiletries, he could deduce their whole private life – and use it against them.

His mind had become his sharpest weapon, of which he made plentiful and merciless use; he had taught his fellow men to keep at a safe distance. This was the way he wanted it. He had made a conscious decision for solitude. This was how it was supposed to be. He was in control. He had the choice. He was in control.

_But are you really? Is this really the way you want it, Sherlock? Is this really you? Are you happy?_

Of course not. But that wasn’t important. Important was only to keep up appearances. Especially before himself.

 _Sherlock Holmes. High-Functioning Sociopath. I don’t need anyone._ There were times he almost believed himself.

But he was no sociopath, and in his heart he knew that.

He was no sociopath. He was autistic, no matter how much he tried to hide and deny it.

 

After that one email Mycroft and Sherlock had not lost another word on the topic – of course not. They simply didn’t speak about such things. But from then on there had been a sort of unspoken agreement between them.

_This is it. This is you._

_You are not happy, Sherlock. You are lonely. You want friends, you want friends so badly, so desperately … but you don’t know how._

_You are not indifferent about what other people think, Sherlock, there is hardly anything you would be less indifferent about. But you don’t know what to do to make them like you. You are scared, Sherlock. You are insecure._

_You are not in control._

_You are not cold, you are not tough. You are vulnerable, so vulnerable._

_You are … disabled._

_This is it, Sherlock._

_This is you._

The realization had turned his self-image fundamentally upside-down. But of course he had not allowed any of that to show outwardly. He had banished these two words, his salvation, his disgrace, to some backmost corner of his mind palace. They were uncomfortable; they called too much into question. He could not afford the weakness they implied.

He was Sherlock Holmes, he had chosen his role in this life and he would continue to play it. He had created a public persona that had served him well until thus far, and there was no reason to give it up now. No reason …

… Until John had entered his life.

_John._

-

“Asperger’s Syndrome?” Sherlock repeated to buy himself time. “Yes, of course, John. Of course I have heard of it. It is my business to _know_ things, you remember?”

Now it was John’s turn to let out an annoyed sigh. Sherlock was trying to distract, and of course he saw through it.

“What I’m trying to say is, Sherlock, do you have Asperger’s Syndrome? Are you autistic? Have you ever … I don’t know … talked to a doctor about that? Because what I’ve witnessed earlier with you … that’s not normal, Sherlock.”

_‘Normal.’_

“I am talking to a doctor right now. What is your professional opinion, _Doctor Watson?_ ” He folded his hands, hoping their slight trembling would go unnoticed, and waited.

“Well,” John began, “I did a bit of research … googled a bit … on the internet …”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow in mockery.

John gave him a disapproving look. “ _Yes_. And … Of course I’m no _expert_ on the subject, but … I could imagine it. It fits, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock avoided his eyes and instead stared at the wallpaper opposite him. He was scared. This conversation was deeply, deeply invading his privacy. John was trying to push forward into a territory that under no circumstances and by no means ever was anyone but Sherlock himself allowed to set foot on. And even he did not like to go there.

He was uncomfortable. He had never talked about this subject to anyone, and he did not feel ready to do it now. He had dedicated his whole life to hiding this part of himself, to bury it deep down within, to allow not the merest hint of it to escape. John might just as well have asked him to strip naked in front of him – that even would have seemed much less intimate to Sherlock.

“Sherlock? What do you think?”

Sherlock forced himself to look at his opponent and suppress all the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

“You are a rather lousy doctor if you need to ask your patients for advice.” His voice was cold and sharp like a razor blade.

Attack. Attack had always been his best defense.

“You don’t want to talk about it.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

 _Okay?_ He had behaved perfectly unacceptably today, he had attacked John, had smashed his watch into pieces and afterwards refused to leave his room or speak a single word to him for hours– and John was willing to drop the subject, just like that? Did that mean he was forgiven?

Or had John decided to leave him, so that all this had become quite immaterial to him?

“Really?” He sought John’s eyes with his. “You are living together with a man who according to all indications is entirely insane and who has proven to you, today, to be prone to violent and destructive outbursts; and what’s more, said man refuses to offer any explanation for his behavior. His mental state is obviously questionable and he is potentially dangerous. That is ‘okay’ for you?” His eyes darted across John’s face, he could not afford to miss even the tiniest detail of his expression.

To Sherlock’s immense relief John could not suppress an amused grin. “I am living together with a man who labels himself a ‘sociopath’ – you know how ridiculous I think that is, right? -, who stores human body parts in our fridge and jumps for joy when he learns of a serial killer’s existence in London. If you intended to scare me away, that was a truly poor performance.”

“I broke your watch.” Sherlock couldn’t quite believe it. Did John really not resent him?

John became serious again. “You obviously weren’t feeling well and it didn’t look as if you had had much control over your actions anymore. There is something amiss with that, but if you think you can manage, then that’s good enough for me. I don’t need a name for it if you don’t want to give me one.”

_Relief. Unspeakable relief._

“But,” John continued, “if there are things which trigger such a … reaction in you, then I want to know about them. Before it happens. And before I pay dear money for something you will trample into tiny pieces by the end of the day.”

“You will get your money back.” Sherlock hurried to earnestly assure him.

“Alright.” John gave him a crooked smile. “So: Ticking clocks are not good. Unannounced cleaning-up actions are not good. Anything else I should know about?”

“I’ll write you a list.”

“Oh.”

“What?” Sherlock’s eyebrows darted together.

“Nothing,” John assured him quickly. “That sounds good.”

Sherlock nodded, trying to organize his thoughts. Today John had seen his possibly _worst_ side, and yet he would stay with him. He demanded no explanation of him, no justification. He accepted this peculiarity of Sherlock’s as he had accepted the nocturnal violin play and the malodorous chemical experiments, his periods of silence for days on end as well as his unending lectures. It was a complete mystery to him how John still managed to put up with him, but he was grateful, so incredibly grateful, for it.

“John.” Sherlock made an effort to look into his eyes, even though he felt naked and exposed under his gaze. It was important to him that John knew just how much he meant his following words. “I owe you a lot.”

 _Stupid._ It irritated him just how rigid and insincere the words had sounded from his mouth, how insufficient they were. He wanted to say so much more, but did not dare to do so for fear of what might end up escaping his lips.

“Yes, indeed,” John confirmed; but there was no reproach in his voice.

They spent some time in silent contemplation. Eventually John broke the silence:

“I’ll have peppermint tea, please.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a few moments, then they hesitantly grinned at each other.

Sherlock got up to put the kettle on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to:
> 
> grayfoxinside.tumblr.com - Thank you so much for all your amazing support and for agreeing to be my beta-reader. Without you I probably wouldn't have started, and most definitely wouldn't have finished this. Thank you. ♥
> 
> notquiteasociopath.tumblr.com and canttellmehowtolivemylife.tumblr.com - You wonderful people, thank you very much for helping me with the English translation! You improved my clumsy writing so much. I really, really appreciate your time and efforts. ♥


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